


the armoury

by wordtheef



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Canon Era, Cunnilingus, F/M, First Time, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Semi-Public Sex, Shameless Smut, Smut, The Porn Is the Plot, many shamebells and zero shame
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-14
Updated: 2020-05-14
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:46:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24184600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordtheef/pseuds/wordtheef
Summary: after sparring, the real exercise begins.
Relationships: Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth
Comments: 10
Kudos: 154





	the armoury

Kissing, they’re kissing and she’s dizzy with it here in the armory where only mundane things happen — but they’re stumbling backwards, knocking over something that must be a sword-rack, she’s holding on to him with both hands — dragging him until they come up hard against a wall and she can focus again on keeping her knees locked, keeping his mouth away from that spot on her neck that makes her want to crumble. 

Pulling his tunic up, hands around his waist now — he is so warm, she already knew how he looked but his skin is hot and he’s breathing fast under her hand — 

She smiles.

He laughs into her shoulder, muffling the sound.

She growls. “Shut up.”

“Impatient wench.”

“I have been  _patient_ with you for three years —”

And Jaime laughs again.

She fumbles at his trousers. Swears. “However did you tie this?”

“Beg pardon, my lady. I did the best that a one-handed — stop. You’re making it worse.”

“The knot? or your cock?”

He flushes pink at that — well, alright; he’s never heard her say it before. He kisses her, a long one. It steals her breath, she has to push at him to catch it. _Move_.

He only shifts a little bit. He isn’t letting her go. “Years?” he says. “Really?”

“I take that back,” she says. “You don’t  deserve the compliment.”

“From the look on your face, I deserve ones you haven’t yet given me. But I can wait.” He’s been unlacing her tunic all this time, she ties it like a sensible human and not in lordly hawker’s knots, and now he cups a breast and dips down his mouth to the nipple.

She bites her tongue.

“You taste like sweat,” he says, a moment later. “Why, Brienne. How unladylike. Anyone would think you’d been sparring.”

“Do you always talk this much?”

“Give me something better to do with my tongue,” he says.

Now it’s her turn to blush -- but her knees are weak again; she isn’t likely to say no to anything he suggests, anything she herself can dredge up  from a mind too thickly clotted, right now, to think of anything to say or do except for “Please touch me.”

“Impatient,” he says again — and sinks to his knees. “Greedy.”

“Jaime, all those nights with you --"

“We spent no nights together.” He tugs open the tie of her trousers. “Not yet.”

“On the road, in the Riverlands — and H-Harrenhal. Not  _together_. And Kings Landing, when you put me in the black cells --"

“You’re ruining the mood,” he says, against the skin of her hip. “Must you be always  talking? — Wench, you’ve golden hair all over.”

“I never felt the cold,” she tells him, letting her legs move apart, letting him touch her. “Even in the cell, alone.”

His finger slips inside, and Brienne makes a sound she’ll be ashamed of later — when he brings it up. “What did you dream about?” he says now. “What kept you warm? Shift your stance further open, let me — yes."

She fists her hand in his hair. Shut  _ up_ .

He moves his fingers and her legs shake; he rubs his thumb and she can’t breathe. 

She hadn’t thought of any of this. Kissing was the limit of her ideas and her experience, and what other knowledge she had did nothing to explain the heat when he looked at her.  _Anticipation_. 

He spreads his knuckles — “This is far simpler with two hands" -- and leans in.

His breath is hot on her for one second, he murmurs something and then he is on her — licking, tasting — quick delicate movements and slower ones, longer ones, alternating, so she cannot get used to it, cannot think past it, cannot be aware of anything but the sensation in her belly and between her thighs — Jaime Lannister has his head between her thighs — he is still moving his fingers inside and bringing them out, pulling and nibbling, she’ll never complain about his talking again, that talented tongue —

He changes pressure, changes speed, and she can’t help it: her hand clenches in his hair and her gut clenches around his hand and she cries out aloud, seeing whiteness, seeing stars.

Brienne wakes on the floor, bare-assed and sated — and a bit embarrassed. She fumbles over her clothes, not meeting his eyes. “You didn’t need to do that for me.”

“I know that. I’ve wanted things, too ... But tell me, what kept you warm in the Riverlands? Was it ignorance or knowledge? Don’t think I forgot about that half-finished sentence. Was it this that you wanted?”

“Oh no,” says Brienne. “I didn't know enough to want this. But, Jaime ...  I dreamt of you.”

**Author's Note:**

> there's a pun about "armour" and "amour", here


End file.
